Not All Children Grow Up, and Some Love Never Dies
by T.S. Wieland
Summary: In single letter of his youth, a young boy is left to wonder why his life is filled with heartbreak.


My story is one you've probably already heard before. A story more known for it's wicked pirates, beautiful mermaids, twinkling fairies, and playful shadows. But my story is much darker than the one you probably remember, and one you probably will never see on a stage. One of young love, loss, and heartbreak.

My mother is gone, leaving me to wonder if my childhood was all a dream, forged by my imagination from bitter heartbreak and mystery. Now, as a proper english gentleman of the crown, I should disregard my own memories without hesitation, if it wasn't for the shadow that still watches over me in my sleep at night. Besides, my heart will never let me forget, even long after my memory has faded.

It was 1915 when I was eight years old, and the word _great_ was passed around London just as commonly as the british pound. It was the word written on the front page of every newspaper, and spoken about on every corner. The word _great_ was on the tip of everyone's tongue, only nothing seemed great at all. London was in mourning. Everyone wore a vacant look of sadness, including my mother, but for many other reasons it seemed.

My childhood dog had passed away, and both my uncles now fought in the muddy trenches of France in a conflict I even to this day am unable to fully understand. I lived with my mother in her childhood home, where I was raised under her loving care, along side my grandmother until she died when I was five. I never knew my father, and everyone refused to speak of him.

My mother often wept into the late hours of the night, when a cold wind stirred. She told me she cried two tears each night, one for each of her brothers. But occasionally, I would see her cry a third. A third I always assumed was for my father.

Tensions between my mother and grandfather had grown to a boiling point that year and those that followed. He spent his hours of the day at his gentleman's club, stricken by the loss of his wife and what would be the inevitable deaths of his two sons, but most of all, by the disappointment in my mother and me. He'd come home with a foul smell on his breath ready to scold my mother regularly. They'd shout back and forth in the parlor until she'd finally collapse into tears while my young eyes watched from the upstairs balcony.

He'd sometimes catch me watching, and scold me as well, holding a serious resentment towards both me and my mother which I never understood. I would often retreat to my room, where I would hide under the covers listening to them continue their argument asi it echoed through the house. Thankfully, I always had my imaginary friend to help cheer me up when the painful shouting matches became unbearable. A shadow on the walls, which would play hide and seek with me long into the night until everyone had gone to sleep. A shadow meant to protect me through the harshest nights.

My mother often spoke of wondrous worlds beyond the stars, filling my dreams with visions of the young boy who would never grow up, speaking as if she had seen these fantasy worlds first hand.

I often asked her each year on Christmas, where my father was. Some years she'd never reply. Other times she'd tell me he was overseas or was called away. But no matter her answer, she'd always tell me his love was always with us. She told me that same year, he once tried to live with us for several years, but in the end, he was called back to his friends in need.

She always seemed heartbroken. Torn by what seemed to be a choice she had made which now kept her grounded by responsability. The only time I ever saw my mother's heartbreak melt away was when I'd feel the warm draft from down the hall creep it's way into my room. I'd hear her laugh and talk to someone. The following nights, she would always have a new story to tell me, filled with new adventures about the boy who would never grow up.

I made an effort to see this mysterious friend of hers out the window more than once. He would often leave her vibrant exoctic flowers, of which I had never seen anywhere in England.

The following year, on a cold February night, felt the same warm draft from her room pass into mine, beckoning me to come. I slowly crept my way down the hall in my night gown, and looked in through the keyhole to her room. All I could see was her sitting at her window seat, speaking to someone outside her window whose presence was obscured by the open window.

I tried to sneak my way inside to get a better look, but the door suddenly locked on me and a bright light blocked the keyhole so I couldn't see.

My mother's heavy footsteps hurried to the door, where she caught me sitting on the floor outside. I expected her to yell, but she just picked me up and carried me into her room with her. I gazed out the frigid open window as she carried me to her bed, but I couldn't see anyone. Just an empty window and a flutter of falling snow. She tucked me into her bed, and held me in her arms as she slept through the night.

I watched the window until I fell asleep, wondering who it was she was talking to. I can never be sure, but I swore that same night, even as my weary eyes fell asleep, I saw someone in the window. And on a warming wind, they left a loving kiss for both me and my mother upon our heads.

Not longer after, the over generous hospitality of my grandfather wore out. He banished me and my mother to streets, forcing us to take up new lodgings as we moved from place to place. Yet no matter how cold the nights got, and how hungry we both became, she still always kept telling me new stories. Allowing us both a chance to escape to to our imaginations.

I've still never met my father and I don't believe I ever will. My mother seemed to believe he was still out there with unhindered passion till the day she died, while my grandfather swore till his final days that he was dead and with good riddance. But what I do know with certainty, still sharing my mother's love without question, he's still out there, and his love is with me. He still leaves exoctic flowers by her grave, and his shadow still watches over me as he sends his love to me on warm winds. And sometimes, I even spot someone hiding outside my windows.

Because not all children grow up, and some love never grows old.

May all your love come on warm winds,

and may shadows protect you in your sleep.

 _Edward J.M. Darling_


End file.
